


Some Say the World Will End in Fire (Others Say in Ice)

by pentaghastly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaghastly/pseuds/pentaghastly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles, slash, AU, canon, and potential future.</p><p>Chapter 10: Sansa [Joffrey], Numb</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Robb/Myrcella: Welcome Home, My Love_

The wind bites against her porcelain cheeks like the claws of a wolf, and she thinks that in this strange place, she must not belong. 

In this land of grey and white, of shadows and snow and frozen darkness, Myrcella stands out like the last blooming flower in a dying field. She is sunlight in a world of eternal night, and the dark-haired, solemn faced Northerners stare at her as if they know she does not belong too. 

The crown that sits atop her head is heavy and iron and crude, and looks wrong against her other crown, the crown of gold that she has worn all her life. Her new husband, her new King tells her she looks beautiful, says she will come to love the North, that these are her people and she shall love them as he does, and they shall love her as they love his mother, and when he tells her all this she smiles, but turns her face so he cannot see the tears that glisten in her eyes of green. 

Eyes of spring. 

Robb's eyes are blue, but not the blue of lakes and oceans and the summer's sky. They are the blue of ice, and although she think them lovely she also thinks them terrifying. They remind her of wolf's eyes, and though Myrcella knows that this is who he is, the Young Wolf, and knows that his hands are always gentle and never rough, and knows that his kisses are always sweet and never cruel, she finds fear in them all the same. She tells him this one night as they lie together, his cold flesh against her warm, dark red curls tangled in her blonde, and he laughs at her, and as he laughs she thinks of music, the sweetest music she has ever heard, and decides that the noise pales in comparison to this. 

"Sweet wife," he tells her, bringing his hand to cup her face. "Blood runs through both our veins, the same as it runs through the veins of all others. However, our blood is not the same. Yours is warm and red, filled with the sweet scent of summer and sunshine, and it flows through to your eyes, the eyes of a flower of the South. But do you know what my blood is?" he asks, but does not pause for her answer. "My veins have frozen from the cold that runs through them, frosted over by the ice that I was born into. The ice of the North, my love."

He kisses her gently then, and though his eyes have fluttered shut hers remain open, seeing, wondering, awaiting what more he has to say. For there is always more that waits beneath the surface, always something that must be said, something that changes everything. 

And she is right to wait for that something, for he whispers, breath hot against her neck, the only heat his frozen body radiates, "Soon the winds of winter shall freeze your blood like mine, and the North will live in you as it lives in us all."

Myrcella, in that moment, thinks him crazy. She thinks him mad. Thinks his wits have left him along with his innocent youth, that which he carried when she first laid eyes on him all those years ago. But the next morning she looks at herself in the glass, and in her eyes, in the eyes of spring, she thinks she may see flecks of blue. 

She thinks this, and as she does she smiles, and in the mirror she sees a wolf. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar/Jon - Goodbye, Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar/Jon - Goodbye, Farewell (I'm Sorry)

My Prince,

I have been thinking, lately. I have thought much of you, and not much of anything else. You haunt my dreams - are you aware of this? Do you do this on purpose, sneak into every crevice of my brain when I am not looking, sink your dragon's claws into my mind with no intention to release me from their sweet grasp? It is not fair, My Prince, to do this to me, to entrance me and entrap me and run away with the Wolf Girl. She cannot please you, cannot give you what you need. It is a foolish dream you chase, My Prince. Almost as foolish as my own. 

Do you remember all those years ago when we sat together at Griffin's Roost one day, one lovely summer's day, and I asked you if I could braid your hair, and you said yes? I swear, that word had never sounded so sweet. For my your hair had always been the most beautiful thing about you, so precious, so untouchable. Where mine was coarse and red and bright, yours was soft and silver and lovely, a glowing halo of white that caught the light in such a way that it outshone the sun. As I touched it, as it lay perfectly glistening in my hands, I felt something I had never felt before. I felt a love so strong I thought my heart might burst. I know, it is a girlish, weak thing of my to say, but it is the truest I have ever said. I loved you more than I ever had in that moment, more than I ever could. And there with your silver crown so soft, so fragile and beautiful in my hand, I swore that I would never let any harm come to you for as long as I lived. 

But it was a vow I could not keep - one you wouldn't let me. One you broke when you stole the Wolf Bitch; one she broke when she stole you. For word has come to me in the night - _dark wings, dark words_ , they say, and I don't think anything has ever been truer - that you have died, My Silver Prince, and you have left me here alone. And I am sorry, so sorry, that I could not do what I swore do. 

I'm sorry. Forgive me. 

I love you. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon/Sansa - Stranger

Jon returns to Winterfell in search of his sister. 

Granted, she is not the sister he had desired to see there. Any other Stark, be it Bran or Rickon or Arya or Robb, his Robb, _always_ Robb, they had been the ones he had prayed for. Theirs were the faces that had haunted his dreams for the six years war, but the sister with the red hair and the blue Tully eyes was never the one he had hoped. Sansa had never been his friend, but had scorned him like her lady mother, rejected and resented him, all for his name. All for his birth of which he had no control. 

Alas, she was his sister, and he was a Stark (a Targaryen, yes, but still a Stark in blood, still a Stark at heart) and the Wall had fallen, the Others had burned, and she was Queen in the North, and he only wanted to come home. 

(Home, such a foreign word to him now. His home has always been mountains of ice and snow, snow like his name, ice like the blood in his veins, and he scarce remembers how home feels.)

He comes to her, knees bent, pledging his life, his honor to her. And he looks upon her face, one that has gone from soft to hard, from porcelain to ivory to steel, and thinks that though she has only grown in beauty, though her eyes still swim like pools of water and her hair is a red halo against the white world that surrounds them (like the color of blood on snow, painting the world in it's terrible beauty, _kissed by fire_ he thinks, for she must have been lucky to have survived this war when so many others perished) he thinks that he has never seen her look less a Tully in her life. 

"Rise, Jon Snow," she says, voice strong and hard, and he thinks of her lord father and has to stop his reminiscent smile. He struggles to rise, slow and awkward and stiff from years of war and bone-numbing cold, but then she says, "Rise, my brother. My only brother."

Jon rises, and in that moment he thinks he has never seen such a startling mix of beauty and power in his life (not even in the Dragon Queen, for though she is said to be the most beautiful woman in the world, he thinks she pales in comparison to this). 

And later, much later, when she comes to him at night, when they share furs and keep each other warm, living, alive, he will ask her what happened to Petyr, and she will tell him, without a hint of a smile, that she made him fly, and he will think that he has not found his sister. Not quite.

Jon returns to Winterfell in search of his sister. Instead he finds a wolf. 


	4. Red and Beautiful and Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb/Sansa: There against the harsh white of the newly fallen snow they lie, frozen and numb and alive.

There against the harsh white of the newly fallen snow they lie, frozen and numb and alive, splatters of blood against the blank canvas of the yard. She is not cold - Sansa no longer thinks she has the ability to feel cold, for despite the harsh bite of the Northern air her veins now run thick with the blood of winter, the blood of ice - and she looks upon the stars with Robb, with her King, stars which can only be seen in Winterfell, and she thinks that this is home.

(For what is home, without a brother’s embrace? Without a sister’s smile? His hand clasped in hers, heat radiating off of it despite the thickness of their gloves, she feels a sense of completeness, and if that is not home, then what is?)

When she returned home to him, just a moon prior, there had been no greater feeling in the world than the warmth of his embrace, no sweeter chill than the trickle of his tears blending into hers, cheeks flush against her own, as if they were trying to mould into one. and she knows his sadness for it, but she cannot feel to pity the woman. Poor Jeyne, sweet Jeyne, the singers sang of her a strong woman, a powerful and gentle and compassionate ruler, but Sansa knows what she was. She was weak, for to die means to give in, to accept and fail and fall, and she would never do such a thing. No Queen should, and nor should she.

Robb turns his head to face her and she follows suit, blue eyes meeting their mirror image. He reaches his hand, the one that does not cling to her own in desperation, up to brush hair away from her face, silent, as if he fear that a single breath would shatter this beautiful illusion forever. “Red,” he whispers, careful not to make any more noise than he must. “Red and beautiful and _red,_ ” and his lips move to dance against her own, gentle, probing, desperate. Anyone could see them here, and they could have their heads, but Sansa will not hide. She feels no shame, not for something like this.

Not for something so pure and sweet and _real,_ the first real thing she has known since a child, possibly ever, possibly all her life. For there is nothing more real than Robb’s lips against her own, his heart beating along with hers, his intensity strong and dangerous and real, always real. He needs her, she knows he does.

Every great king needs a great queen, and it would seem to her the Young Wolf is no exception. She only hopes (although she knows, she is certain she must, for she knows things now, and this must be one) that she will be enough.

(For he will always be enough for her.)


	5. Dissent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon/Sansa, a rebellion of sorts.

She is a maid of ten and two when she has her first kiss, and to her it is a terribly scandalous thing - Sansa Stark would usually never dream of such infidelities, but she's so horribly _furious_ at her father, at his smothering and babying and fretting, that she feels she has to do something. Something to show him that she's not a child, not a little girl but a woman grown, even if it's something that he will never hear about, _can_ never hear about (he'll have his head on a stick, touching his little girl, he'll have him locked in the crypts to rot with the ghosts and the shadows), this little victory, this silent rebellion of hers will have to be enough.

 

His lips slant against hers - he's dark and dangerous and she's seen the way he looks at her when he's out in the yard with Jon and Robb, sharp eyes glinting, watching her every move with an intelligence that would frighten her were it not so...attractive. He's the perfect choice, his name alone the ideal symbol of her dissent, and she sighs contentedly into his mouth as he shifts closer, pressing her against the stable door, cloaked in the shadows of their secrets. His mouth tastes of iron and salt, and it's fitting, she thinks, as he nips her lips with his kraken's teeth.

 

_Yes, in a moment it shall be gone, but this little victory belongs to her and her alone._


	6. Under Shadow and Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion/Sansa - in the dark I am the Knight of Flowers

She comes to him in the dead of night after news of the Red Wedding breaks, the massacre of a King, the decimation of a family, the slaughter of her mother and brother and her hopes of making it out of this lion's den alive.

 

He doesn't expect her - of course he doesn't, why would he, it's not as if she's come to him before - but he can't say he's disappointed, for against his better judgment, and despite her obvious and just disdain, the lion has grown fond of his pretty little wife and her sweet songs of summer, even though he knows that she songs will never be about men like him, that her delicate smiles and soft words will never be for him, that he can never tame a wolf. So when his mattress sinks beside him as the stillness of nighttime is shattered by soft breaths against his cheek, hands finding his own, drawing him do her, he hesitates, but he does not protest.

 

In the morning she will pretend this never happened, and they will go on as they do - bitter man and unwilling wife, playing their dutiful roles as pawns in a game that both have found themselves no where near as suited for as they once thought, and despite the bitter truth, the harsh reality, they will go on without complaint.

 

For these are the lives that they have been granted, and although they are not much they are _lives_ , and that is far more than can be said for her father or brother or mother or aunt she never knew, or his poor sweet Tysha, or his mother or Robert, or the countless others that had played the Game of Thrones and fallen to the likes of Tywin Lannister and his golden band of fools.

 

But in the dark he is the Knight of Flowers, and she is ever the wolf she promises to be, and they give each other the only thing they can, if just this once.


	7. A Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar/Lyanna - they tell it wrong

They tell a story of a fragile young girl who was stolen by the son of a monster, locked in a tower, trapped in a horrible fate until her true love would come to rescue her - but he would come all to late, and in his anguish and in her name he would tear the beasts apart.

 

They tell it wrong.

 

The story they should tell is the story of a wolf, unwilling to be caged, to be gathered up and carted away by the stag of yellow and gold, the stag who got too handsy when he drank, the stag who was bawdy and overzealous in his affections, the stag who thought he could tame her, thought he could make her a pretty little wife hidden away in her pretty little gowns, and that the wolf would simply lie back and take it.

 

They should tell the story of a dragon with a heart too kind for the world he grew up in, of a dragon who saw the beauty in everything and it hurt him, tore him apart as he strummed his anguish on his harp, the music haunting, the echoes of his soul in the isolation of his courtly life. A man too beautiful for the world, a man who loved to freely, who longed for nothing more than reckless abandon in a world of regulation, a dragon who saw a wolf fighting in a tourney, a dragon who was enthralled by a queen, the wrong queen, the queen of love and beauty and winter roses, the queen that could never be his.

 

They should tell the story of a man and woman in love, a love that would tear apart kingdoms and bring kings to their knees. They should tell the story of a man and woman who birthed a child, a child with coal black hair and stark gray eyes, a child they could never keep.

 

They should tell the story of a man and woman who died for love, and the love the could never have.

 

But some stories are not meant to be told, and some stories are not ready to be told, so they tell the story of a rapist and a murderer and a fragile girl who waited in anguish for a rescue that would never come. They tell a lie, for often the lie is far kinder on the soul than the truth, and denial is a blessing in the hands of a broken man.


	8. A Woman's Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa/Marg AU - A Sharpened Tongue

In her age, she's grown bolder.

They say poison is a woman's weapon, and Cersei had always told her of another she possessed, but Sansa does not think them the only ones in her arsenal. For a sharpened tongue is a weapon dangerous as any other, and bitter anger and betrayal have made hers cut cleaner than any sword.

It is difficult to control, however, no matter how hard she tries - all it takes is an insult from King to Queen, or the slap of a hand across an innocent face, or even a misplaced glance to a serving girl to set her off. She is a lady in waiting now, a blessing Margaery bestowed on her, now under the woman's protection, and she knows she has no place - but biting words slip from her mouth like butter, and the king sputters, and the Queen glares her way ( _not again, how do you expect me to continue to keep you safe when you say these things, must I sew your mouth shut?_ ) and she is beaten and battered and bruised, and she has no regrets.

For later she "takes care" of the Queen in her chambers as a proper lady in waiting should, and her tongue has become talented in many other ways, and as the woman writhes and moans beneath her Sansa allows herself a wolfish grin.

Her tongue gets her into trouble, yes, but it can just as easily get her out of it.


	9. Craven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ygritte/Jon: she's not afraid of death, she's afraid of him.

She's not a craven. 

No, she's one of the Free Folk, one of the brave. Them fancy lords hidden away in the safety of their towers, sending other men to fight their battles for them - _they're_ the craven ones. They're the cowards. She's a woman, no doubt about that, and Ygritte swears her balls are twice the size of theirs. 

So what is this churning in her stomach, this coiling of her insides like a knife has been stabbed inside? She knows, 'course she does, and the answer makes her more angry than ever. 

It's his fault. Stupid Crow, with his sad eyes and handsome face. Foolish her, for allowing herself to be drawn in by 'em. He's done this to her, he has, with his Lord's kiss and his strange words and his love, that which he lavishes upon her freely as if she's his Lady - _stupid Crow, she's no one's lady._ Except now she is, isn't she?

Now she's his. 

"I never want to leave this cave, Jon Snow," and she means it. She means it because she's afraid. 

Not for herself. No, she's not afraid of death, but she's afraid of him; the stupid Crow, the fool boy, the handsome lord, and Ygritte thinks that must make her the biggest bloody craven of them all.


	10. Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark [&Joffery]: When her child is born, they ring the bells from sunrise to sunset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: the subject matter in this drabble might make people uncomfortable. Please be advised that it's not exactly comfortable reading material, and likely won't sit well with some people. If you are an incredibly sensitive person, especially when it comes to infants, please don't read this. There's no death, but it's definitely not pleasant.

When her child is born, they ring the bells from sunrise to sunset.

Not that she hears them. It cries so loud, so painfully loud, she thinks she will never know another noise again.

The first time she hold it, Sansa remembers what her mother told her once, when she was just a summer child, no more than eight years old - _"you'll never love a living creature as much as you love your own children."_ So she's prepared for the rush of emotion, the tears of joy, for the empty pit in her stomach that has been there for so long, so terribly long, to finally be filled.

But she's older now, and wiser still, and she's not surprised when her body remains comfortably numb.

She feels nothing for the infant at first, save for the cool fingers of indifference. Then tufts of blonde hair sprout on it's soft, pale skull, and quite suddenly she finds she reviles it. Not only reviles, but _fears_. She never touches it, never hold it - the wet nurses to that for her, pitying looks on their faces which she does not need. Rather she stares, fingers twitching, face an impassive mask, and wonders if her son will be as much a monster as his father.

She wonders if the delicate fingers will ever be wet with blood, if he will ever rape a woman and beat her bloody, if he will ever curl his cruel pink lips in pleasure when he watches a young girl suffer.

When she finds the pillow in her hands, she is not quite sure how it appeared there. When she finds herself raising it above his head, she knows.

But still she lets it drop to the floor, lets arms hang limp by her sides, lets the piercing cries consume her mind once more. She wonders, absently, what her husband would say if he were to see her then, seconds away from tearing his one heir from the world

He would likely laugh at her for still being so weak.


End file.
